Completion
by WashDCChick
Summary: Grissom and Sara on a date. Please read and review.
1. Default Chapter

Title:Completion  
Author: WashDCChick  
Rating:R  
Spoilers:Gentle, Gentle, PNN, Scuba Doobie Doo  
  
Feedback:Feedback is an author's lifeblood. Please take a moment to review.  
  
Disclaimer:I don't own any of the characters in the story. I do own the Norah Jones CD, but I'm not making any money off of either of these things, so it won't do you any good to sue me.   
  
Notes:The biggest Thank You to Meggo, my beta 'ho. I couldn't have done it without you. Also, no, Grissom does not lose Sara to Ecklie in a bet. An equally big Thank You to k, my best friend, and beta. Twenty years and counting, baby girl!  
  
Summary: Apparently romanticism and pragmatism can co-exist, a follow-up story to Just in Time.  
  
*******************************************************  
  
The butterflies in my stomach aren't helping. I tried to sleep, I really tried, but I couldn't. My brain just keeps going no matter how much I try to get it to stop, its probably going even more. Grissom asked me out on a date. That doesn't explain why I'm so nervous, we've been dating or in a relationship or whatever you call it for months now. What do you call it when you're sleeping with your boss/former mentor?  
  
To be precise, Grissom *told* me we were going on a date. It's not that I minded being told, it's just that I wouldn't have minded being asked. So much of my life is about being in control; I need control to be happy. I've never felt less in control than when I'm with him, and I've never felt happier. It's such a strange series of contradictions. I actually try not to think about it too much, losing control on purpose is pretty scary.  
  
I need to calm my nerves. Norah Jones is in the CD player, I turn the volume up and hum along a little, walking over to the kitchen. "Come away with me, in the night." There's a bottle of wine Warrick gave me as a gift. Pouring a glass, I remind myself to return the favor someday. Taking a hot bath is the only thing I can think to do right now and I could stand to get clean anyway. Death always seems to leave something of itself behind with you, even if it's only in your mind.  
  
My hands are wrinkled, so I drain my glass of wine and then the tub. Grissom asked me once what Victoria's Secret was. He's about to find out. Maybe a special occasion is what you make of it. I open my top drawer and pull out a small package wrapped in tissue paper, holding a particularly lacy pair of underwear and a strapless push-up bra. Everyone can use a little help up top occasionally.  
  
I'm a little more careful than usual applying my makeup, and I spend a little extra time straightening my hair. It's a bad habit, but I prefer to let Grissom be the curly-headed one. Assessing myself in the mirror, the face I see scowls back at me. The bath and wine have only gone so far to soothe my nerves.  
  
In the back of my closet hangs a dress I've never worn. One of the advantages to being a computer junkie and not needing much sleep is that you can find things like clothes on the internet without everything hateful about shopping, which is pretty much everything: the fluorescent lights, the crowds of people, the insincere, pushy salespeople. I hate it all. Not that I don't like clothes, I'm just not out to impress anybody.  
  
The dress is strapless coral. The silk feels surprisingly decadent against my skin, and I'm not used to being this bare on top. Everyone at work would be surprised to see me in this. They think I don't know how to dress 'like a girl', but its not true. It's just that when you deal with corpses and criminals all day it's sort of wasted.  
  
My closet isn't the most organized you've ever seen, and I have to dig around to find my good shoes. I briefly consider a pair of heels, but decide that's overkill, even for today, and choose a pair of flat sandals instead. I check the clock, willing it to go faster, but it just stares back at me. On the coffee table in front of the couch is a book I've been reading. I pick it up, and actually manage to get so engrossed that I jump when there's a knock at my apartment door.  
  
I know it's him, but I check the peephole anyway. Not even the fisheye lens can distort Grissom's beauty. Just the sight of him makes me so excited I can hardly contain myself. If I were Catholic, I'd cross myself. Instead, I take a deep breath, unlock the door and open it.   
  
He takes my breath away.  
  
"Hi," he says.   
  
The sound of his voice thrills me, it always does.   
  
"Can I come in?"  
  
I'm blocking the doorway; I feel like an ass. His eyes hold mine for an instant, then an instant more. It's almost too much to take. He notices what I'm wearing and his expression changes. If I were being objective, I'd say he looks amazed. I look down, embarrassed, and inwardly delighted that he noticed.  
  
"Sara. You look - more beautiful than usual. I didn't think that was possible."  
  
I can tell he means it. He's wearing a light colored suit. I can't stop looking at him and grinning. "So do you," I say. My brain fails me and it's the only thing coherent to tell him that I can come up with.  
  
He's made dinner reservations for us at a local Moroccan restaurant. We walk out to his Tahoe and he opens the car door for me. Its like we're going to the prom, the way my nerves are on edge, the way every look, touch and gesture makes my heart beat faster. The car ride over is quiet. We're not normally ones for small talk; we're usually comfortable in each other's company, but the silence tonight seems almost tangible. We keep glancing over at each other, returning awkward, hopefully reassuring, smiles.  
  
If you weren't actually looking for the restaurant, you'd probably pass right by it. The building is low compared to those around it, and windowless, marked only by a small door and the name of the restaurant painted above it in Arabic. The restaurant is wholly unique, like Grissom.   
  
We walk from the car to the restaurant door, side by side, the nervousness easing into comfortable quiet. As if making up for their owners' reluctance, our hands find each other and mesh.  
  
"Grissom, there's no handle on this door. How do we get in?" I realize it's a stupid question as soon as I say it. Thankfully, Grissom chooses to treat the question as a reasonable one.   
  
"We knock," he says, and does so.  
  
When the door opens, it's like stepping into "Alice in Wonderland". The door doesn't meet the ground, and we step up and duck to enter. Inside is a warmly lit room with several curved booths covered in silken cushions. The walls are painted floor to ceiling in brilliant jewel toned geometric patterns, adding to the serenity and warmth created by the lack of windows. I'm taking all of it in and I feel Grissom watching my reaction. I turn to him and place my mouth next to his ear so he can hear me whisper.  
  
"Thank you for taking me here. This place is amazing."  
  
"You deserve nothing less," he replies simply.  
  
I'm as surprised as when he pulled that beauty line on me in the hockey rink. He's not usually one for words.   
  
"Jeez, Grissom. I thought you were a pragmatist not a romantic."  
  
He actually looks hurt for an instant. I feel lousy for saying it.  
  
"Who said the two could not co-exist?" he asks.  
  
I'm saved from having to answer by the waiter, dressed in traditional costume, complete with fez, serving the first course.  
  
"Did we order?" I ask Grissom.  
  
"It's a pre-set authentic meal like a Moroccan family would serve," he explains. "Seven courses, all but one vegetarian."  
  
Apparently pragmatism and romanticism can co-exist.  
  
"You use the pita to scoop up the salads," he continues.  
  
Grissom uses his hands like an artist might, gracefully maneuvering the salads off the communal dish and into his mouth. It surprises me, though it shouldn't. I've watched him thousands of times picking a single thread off of a victim or switching delicate glass slides under a microscope.  
  
There's actually something very sensual about the act of using your hands to eat. Our hands bump in the middle reaching for the last bit of eggplant and we lock eyes and smile. He motions with an eyebrow that I should take it. Carefully, I combine food with bread, lift it off the plate and pause. Still gazing into the ocean of his eyes, I move the sandwich over to Grissom's mouth. His eyes open wide and he accepts the offering, capturing my fingers just a bit with his lips. When he swallows, I lean over and taste his mouth with my own. I can't believe I'm being this brazen. It excites me. I know the look on Grissom's face; it excites him, too.  
  
Halfway through the meal there's sudden activity: like a military operation, the waiters construct a small rectangular stage in the middle of the restaurant. The lights dim, music begins and a curvaceous belly dancer is escorted onto the stage. Stealing a glance at Grissom, I'm suddenly jealous of this woman with her full breasts, curving waist and rounded hips and belly. I've always been built a bit like a boy. This woman sways and rolls her body like a wave on the ocean. The layered silks and sheer panels skirt her legs and hug her thighs. The audience is delighted and the men in the room, including Grissom, are clearly captivated.  
  
When the lights go up, I'm still watching Grissom, but when he turns to me the desire in his eyes is plainly for me, not the dancer. We spend the rest of the meal having one conversation while our eyes are having another.  
  
"We have one more reservation," he tells me. 


	2. Chapter 2

Most of my time in Las Vegas has been spent at crime scenes, so when Grissom and I arrive at the Venetian, I'm looking at it through fresh eyes. Everything I see with him looks new and different. The sunlight streams into the plaza, making everything sparkle; there's gold trim and creamy marble everywhere, the blue of the canal is the color of Grissom's eyes. The Shoppes are done in classic Venetian architecture, all columns and arches. I've never been to Venice; I'd like to someday, but being here now I can't imagine how it would be any more romantic than this.  
  
We have reservations for a private gondola ride; Grissom steps into the gondola first, and then turns to help me in. The gondolier on the dock tries to help, he's just doing his job, but Grissom's withering look tells him his help is not wanted. Normally, I might mind his possessiveness, but today it seems hopelessly sweet.   
  
Grissom sits down and gently guides me back to lean against his chest, then wraps me in his arms and covers us with a blanket. His warmth and scent surround me as we ride down the canal. I don't even notice the tourists all along the pier and above us on the bridge. The only things I notice are Grissom and the effortless glide of the gondola's oar in the water.  
  
I want to stay like this forever.  
  
I don't realize I'm staring until Grissom squeezes me a little and raises his eyebrows. He's wondering what I'm thinking.  
  
"Marry me, Grissom."  
  
He looks startled, like when I pretended to be wiping chalk off his cheek. His eyes question me.  
  
"I'm serious, Gris. I love you and I want you and I need you. I don't need fancy restaurants or a gondola ride or you in a suit - well maybe the suit once in a while." He smiles. "I don't need to wait and see or date other people to know that what I need is to be with you for the rest of my life, and I know you feel the same way. You don't have to say it for me to know, and you know that, too."   
  
The idea seems so organic I don't know why it never occurred to me before.   
  
He beams at me, that crazy from the bottom of his heart mixture of love, pride and amazement that makes me want to do anything just to see it again.  
  
Finally he says, "You're right, Sara. I only need you. I've only ever needed you."  
  
I'm calm, not at all nervous.  
  
"So, Gil Grissom, will you marry me? Here, today?"  
  
"Sara Sidle, nothing in the world could make me happier."  
  
My head is spinning. I surprised myself by asking him; he surprised me by accepting. We've been more than friends, but less than anything else for so long. Now everything is going 100 miles an hour.  
  
We're both grinning now, and we can't take our eyes off of each other. The gondolier has all the information we need; this is Las Vegas after all. We can get married on the bridge above the canal, and he arranges for a limousine to get us to the courthouse for a marriage license.  
  
During the short trip, Grissom and I are like a couple of teenagers who have just discovered each other. When we're not kissing, we're staring into each other's eyes or he's stroking my hair, or he's kissing my hand or I'm whispering I love you's into his ear. If there's a line, we don't notice it, if the court clerk looks bored we can't tell. We don't notice much of anything except each other, and in a lover's moment we're back at the hotel, on the bridge overlooking the canal.  
  
Grissom turns to me, and asks seriously, "Are you sure you want to do this right now? Like this? I don't even have a ring for you."  
  
Add his thoughtfulness to the endless list of things I love about him.  
  
"Gil, I've never been more sure. I don't need a wedding when what I want is a marriage. I don't care about some dress or a bouquet. That's not what this is about."  
  
He smiles again and we're in front of the minister. Grissom holds my hands in his. I want to stop time, freeze this instant to capture the pureness and intensity. I want to quantify the electricity between us.  
  
It's my turn to speak.  
  
"I Sara Jane, take you, Gil, to be my lawfully wedded husband. To have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live."  
  
My lover echoes me.  
  
"I Gil, take you, Sara Jane, to be my lawfully wedded wife. To have and to hold, to love and to cherish, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, as long as we both shall live."  
  
Finally the minister, "I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss your bride."  
  
Grissom puts his hands around my waist and I wrap his curls around my fingers as he pulls me to him. When my lips meet his, warm, wet, and soft, I think time actually *has* stopped. His arms encircle me and hold me to him tightly, and then he pulls back to look at me.  
  
Pursing his lips he says, "There's still time for a wedding night."  
  
I laugh. "Race you to the limo!"  
  
We leave Grissom's Tahoe at the hotel. It wouldn't be safe to drive since we still can't stop looking at each other. I'm so happy it makes my heart ache.  
  
The limo takes us back to Grissom's place, our place now, I think. Those words are so foreign to me: we, our, ours, now they're the most beautiful words I know. Grissom opens the door and bends down unexpectedly. He sweeps me off my feet, literally, and I start laughing.  
  
"What the -? Gris, what are you doing? Put me down; you're going to hurt yourself!"  
  
He's ignoring my protests. "I'm carrying my bride across the threshold. Its traditional."  
  
I'm holding onto his back for dear life, but I smile, "Since when have we ever been traditional?"  
  
He shoots me a look and kicks the door closed behind him.  
  
"Okay, Grissom. You've made your point. You can put me down now."  
  
"Not here," he says.  
  
He's carrying me into the house. "Grissom, you're being ridiculous."  
  
"I'm being romantic."  
  
How can I argue with that?  
  
I can feel his arms straining, but I know when he sets his mind to something there's no use arguing. Funny thing is that's what he says about me. When we get to the bedroom he deposits me carefully onto the bed.  
  
"God, Gris. Are you sure you didn't hurt yourself?"  
  
Carrying me was harder than he'll admit to. It was also the sweetest, funniest, most romantic thing I think he's ever done.  
  
"Sara, love, you overestimate your weight."  
  
"But not my height."  
  
"Ah, yes, the lovely length of you."  
  
He takes off his suit jacket and shoes, and sits next to me on the bed, slipping off my shoes. His right hand slides down the top of my left foot, his palm runs up over my calf and then around and over my knee to my thigh, halfway up the skirt of my dress.  
  
I watch him, curiously. I love his face when he touches me, seeing the curiosity change to concentration, then to desire. His hand moves back to my knee, then underneath, using his middle finger to trace circles in the crook.  
  
My eyes close slightly and he balances on his other hand, leaning in for a kiss, still fingering the underside of my knee with a feathery touch. I can see his lips moving closer to mine, open slightly. I can feel the sensation before it arrives. He opens his mouth enough to cover mine. When I rise up to meet him, at the last possible moment he pulls back slightly. I try again, aching to taste his mouth. A second time he pulls away and I see the amusement on his face.   
  
He's teasing me and clearly enjoying it.  
  
My heart races, not knowing when he'll let me kiss him. I don't want to wait.  
  
"Close your eyes," he insists. I close them.  
  
I feel his lips, just his lips, on mine, granting me tiny kisses over and over, finally opening my mouth. The champagne we had in the limousine lingers on the back of his tongue; I can taste it with my own, and now I'm throbbing, blood flooding my insides, making me squirm.  
  
His ear looks lonely, so I sit up to lavish it with attention, alternating my tongue with hot breath, desperately trying to get him out of his shirt and tie. He sighs and moves to hover over me, his hands grasping both my thighs and pushing my dress up.  
  
Moving close to kiss his mouth roughly, I push him down by his shoulders and sit astride him, letting the bottom of my dress climb to the top of my legs. I find the right position and shift my weight slightly, rocking back and forth, getting us both so excited we can barely speak.  
  
When he grabs my hips with his hands, I'm grateful for their warmth. When he reaches around to unzip my dress, I shrug it off and let it wrinkle around my hips. He's kneading my breasts, making me moan, and teasing the nipples, making me gasp. I take his hands in mine and bend over to run my hands over his arms and caress his torso with my hands and mouth.   
  
"Sara," he breathes. "I can't wait."  
  
"Good. Neither can I."  
  
We shed the last remains of our clothing and he gently places his weight on top of me. When he's inside of me it all feels so good I could cry. I can't get close enough to him; I don't just want to be with him, I want to be him. He's gentle and attentive, then hard and needy. We revel in the sensation of each other until we reach the breaking point and cross it, finally able to lay quietly in the peace of each other's arms. 


	3. Chapter 3 - Final

The afterwards is almost as intimate as the act. We lie in bed, kissing and caressing each other with little touches. Eventually, Grissom shifts his weight off of me and moans appreciatively.  
  
"Believe me, " I say. "The feeling's mutual."  
  
"I love you so much, Sara. I wish I knew how to tell you."  
  
"I think you just did. I love you too."  
  
We're quiet again for a while, looking at each other, touching and thinking.  
  
"Grissom?"  
  
"Yes, love?"  
  
I melt when he calls me that. "We really did it, didn't we? We actually got married?"  
  
His mouth moves as he considers how to respond, and then he smiles that beautiful smile back at me.  
  
"Yes, we certainly did...Mrs. Grissom."  
  
Oh no. I swear that never even crossed my mind.   
  
"What did you just call me?" I'm somewhere between horrified and appalled.  
  
He grins broadly and he's got that teasing look in his eyes.  
  
"That is your married name now, Mrs. Grissom."  
  
I groan in disbelief.  
  
He runs a finger over my lips and says, "I meant it, you know."  
  
"Meant what?"  
  
"'As long as we both shall live.' I fully intend to spend the rest of my life with you."  
  
"I meant it too," I tell him. "But if you ever call me that name again, all bets are off. Deal?"  
  
"Deal."  
  
He's serious now. "What do we tell the others?"  
  
I knew we'd have to deal with real life, I was just hoping to postpone it for as long as possible. Leave it to Grissom to quickly dissuade me of that idea.  
  
"Hmm. Good question," I say. "Honestly, I'm not sure I'm ready to tell them anything. Getting married wasn't about them."  
  
He considers this carefully before nodding and gazing over at me. "Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"  
  
I laugh. "Let me think. Yes. But I never get tired of hearing it."  
  
"Good. Because I never get tired of saying it."  
  
**************************  
  
We've been busy at work recently and end up staying well into the day. Back home we collapse, exhausted. I'm too tired to deal with all the questions that seem to be nagging at me suddenly. We're married, but we've never lived together. I haven't lived with a roommate since college, more than 10 years. Grissom has 15 years on me age wise, so I can't imagine that it's been any sooner for him.  
  
These first few weeks together we've been walking on eggshells around each other. We're polite to a fault, neither one of us wanting to challenge the other, for fear of opening a can of worms we're not ready for. It's just easier to pretend these issues don't exist. Maybe all newlyweds go through this, I don't know. I do know that eventually something's got to give.  
  
Grissom can tell something's on my mind, but he doesn't say anything about it.   
  
It starts with the couch.   
  
"This must be the most uncomfortable couch, ever," I say.  
  
"I doubt that," he replies. He knows I'm not really upset about the couch, and his purposeful avoidance of the real subject makes me egg him on further.  
  
"I don't. My couch is more comfortable anyway."   
  
He says to me, "We can use your couch if you'd like." He's trying to be helpful. It's a shame I don't see it that way. It starts with the couch, but it doesn't end there, not by a mile.   
  
I'm yelling at him now, which I don't think I've ever done before. "My couch won't fit. Neither will my coffee table, or my computer or anything else of mine. You hate it when I listen to my police scanner, all you ever listen to is opera and Pink Floyd, and there's god-knows-what in the refrigerator." He starts yelling back at me.  
  
"What do you want Sara? I'm not a mind reader; I don't always know exactly what you're thinking! Would you please just tell me what it is that you want from me?"  
  
I've never seen him angry like this before. He snapped at me when that baby was killed and I told him he was getting too close to the case, but he's never actually yelled at me. He's angry, hurt, confused and afraid. I can hear it all in his voice. He's feeling everything I've been feeling and neither one of us has been talking about. That's what happens when two slightly anti-social, overly intelligent scientists get together.  
  
His emotion knocks some sense into me. "I'm sorry, Gris. It's not the couch. It's living somewhere new; it's living with someone new. It's everything."  
  
He sits down next to me on the couch.   
  
"Well, it is a pretty uncomfortable couch," he says sweetly.  
  
"You haven't even met my parents."  
  
"I didn't know you wanted me too," he points out.  
  
"Lord. I didn't. I don't. I don't know. Remember how I said this was about us, and not other people?"  
  
He nods.  
  
"Apparently, I was wrong. I'm so confused, Grissom."  
  
He reaches out to me, and I gratefully put my head in his lap. I can tell he doesn't know what to say. "I'm sorry," he attempts.  
  
"Oh, don't be. It's not your fault."  
  
Right. It's not his fault I fell in love with my boss who's fifteen years older than I am. It's not his fault that he owns and I rent, making it automatic that I would move into his place. It still feels like his place, it just has some of my stuff in it now. He'd do almost anything to make me happy, including moving. I'm just not sure that's the solution, much less the problem.  
  
We stay like that for a while, actually talking about things that matter: my apartment, his furniture, my family, and his music. Somehow it seems like as well as we think we know each other, in some ways we really don't know each other well at all. He doesn't promise me 'happily ever after', and I don't promise him either. Instead, we promise to try and to talk and to forgive each other for picking fights or saying things we don't mean. At least it's a start.  
  
******************  
  
So here I am, 33 years old, about to get married again. It's my second wedding, my first marriage. We kept our word and haven't told anybody about that first ceremony, not even Catherine or Warrick, and certainly not Nick. It's just been Grissom, the tarantula, and me.  
  
Getting married that day was probably one of the best things we've ever done; it took all the pressure off of everyone looking in on our relationship, wondering and asking questions. When people asked me when Grissom and I were going to get married, I'd tell them the truth.  
  
"When we're ready." When we're ready to let everyone else into that part of our lives.  
  
Grissom wanted to make sure we "did it correctly" this time. Six months later he surprised me by proposing. He bought me a big, shiny, diamond ring, and we told our friends, grinning at each other as always, that we were getting married. They never had any reason to wonder what was behind our smiles.  
  
Today is three months after he proposed, and our second wedding day. It's just our closest friends and family here. I thought about asking Catherine to be my maid of honor, but then Grissom would have had to ask both Nicky and Warrick to be his best men, and that was just too much for us. They're all special to us, Greggo, too and we've told them as much.  
  
I'm wearing a simple white satin gown, my hair is pulled back and I have a small bouquet of crimson roses clutched nervously in my hands. The butterflies in my stomach aren't helping, as I'm looking into the eyes of the man I'm spending the rest of my life with. The priest asks me a question; it's my turn to speak.   
"I do."  
  
  
FIN 


End file.
